


Layers, Part Five

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-10-19
Updated: 1999-10-19
Packaged: 2018-11-10 13:56:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11128272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Money might be easy, but sometimes love is hardThis story is a sequel toLayers, Part Four.





	Layers, Part Five

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).
    
    
    Layers, Part Five
    
    by Bone
    
    October 1999
    
    Disclaimers:  The due South characters belong to Alliance Atlantis. Written
    for pleasure, not profit. For adult readers only, please. Many thanks
    to Crysothemis, Dawn P, Kat and Aristide for beta-reading and encouragement.
    Comments are welcomed at
    
    Notes: This the fifth story in the "Layers" series.  Layers 1 - 4 may
    all be found at the Due South Fiction Archive: http://www.hexwood.com/dsa/
    
    Pairing:  Fraser/Kowalski
    
    Rating:  NC-17 for language and sexual content
    
    Spoilers:  Easy Money
    
    Summary:  Money might be easy, but sometimes love is hard.
    
    ***************************************
    
    Fraser scared the shit out of me today.
    
    I thought I'd lose my mind out there in that stinky alley. What good
    is all that firepower if nobody'll use it? Even Welsh didn't get it.
    The guy was going to *kill* Fraser and his friend, and they were going
    to make me stand out there and listen to it happen. 
    
    Yeah, well, not while I still had breath in my body.
    
    I guess I did lose a clump of my brain, cuz I don't know shit about motorcycles,
    and even less about jumping one through a window, but that's what I did.
    I don't remember too much about it, except Fraser's face. I've gotta
    say, he looked pretty happy to see me. 
    
    I said to myself right then and there that Fraser and I needed to have
    a little talk about the definition of partnership. I always thought it
    meant you worked on stuff together, thought that was sort of the whole
    point. Not that you work together until some old Eskimo... excuse me,
    Inuit... friend appears out of the blue and you head off with *him* instead,
    hide stuff, go off and get yourself in all kinds of trouble. 
    
    It's not that he doesn't deserve his own life. He does. Hell, if anybody
    deserves a choice here and there, it's Fraser. His whole existence is
    practically mapped out for him. The entire Consulate staff is wound pretty
    tight, and Fraser's the rudder on that dinghy, if you know what I mean.
    He doesn't get to make a lot of choices in the course of a normal day.
    
    So it's no skin off my nose if he'd rather go spend a few days with his
    friend, his... what did he call him? His guide. I'm a grown-up. I can
    take it, if he just wouldn't go get himself tied up and threatened. That's
    what I have trouble with. That's not so much to ask, is it? 
    
    It's not like they were sight-seeing, doing the ferris wheel on Navy
    Pier. No, they were doing nitty gritty Chicago cop work, only neither
    of them are Chicago cops. Fish out of water, that's what they are. Babes
    out of the woods. 
    
    All right, all right, it's over. He's fine. He's fine, Quinn's fine,
    and I hear Dief missed the whole thing for a plate of spilled ratatouille.
    I bet he'll be hearing about *that* for awhile. The window's a goner,
    and the cycle's going to need some work, but on the whole, it turned
    out more good than bad. Welsh grumbled a little at me for not following
    procedure, but even he said it was a creative use of a motorcycle, so
    I guess I'm good. 
    
    Good, but still a little shaky. Not from the jump (or the landing, which
    hurt like a son-of-a-bitch about half an hour later), but from the worry.
    
    And Fraser just acts like it was nothing. Like being tied to a post and
    trying to talk his way out of getting his brains blown out wasn't anything
    to get upset about. For all I know, that's standard training procedure
    for Mounties, but it would've scared me speechless. I wouldn't even know
    all that if Quinn hadn't told me later. Told me how cool Fraser kept
    it, how he worked on the knots. It almost made me think Quinn knew about
    us, the way he talked. Like he wanted me to be proud of Fraser, of how
    he held his own in there. 
    
    It's no surprise that Fraser's good under pressure. I've told him that
    before, and as soon as I get him alone somewhere, I'll tell him again.
    For now, it's good enough just to have him close by, walking and talking.
    Probably just as well we're not alone. I'm still see-sawing from "Damn,
    I'm glad he's still alive" to "What the hell did he think he was doing?"
    and I might say something that'd piss him off. 
    
    'Course, that's not an all-bad thing, not now that I know all those different
    ways to provoke him. 
    
    But now's not the time to think about that. It's *really* not the time.
    See, before I can get myself even halfway put back together after all
    the excitement, I get Shock of My Life #2 for the day. 
    
    Mom and Dad, in the flesh, astroturf and all, parked in the back lot.
    I'm not sure what that does to the whole Vecchio cover thing, but I guess
    we can always say they're cousins or something. Not sure a cousin would
    go to the trouble of towing a GTO from Arizona to Chicago, but we can
    probably make up something if it ever comes up. 
    
    The GTO. The beautiful GTO. She runs like a dream. She's clean as a whistle.
    She's more than a car; she's a state of mind. A state of mine. 
    
    I love this car.
    
    I love knowing my dad thought enough of it, if not enough of me, to keep
    it in such good shape. 
    
    That's a good place to start. I think. Or else he's sick of looking after
    it and wants me to take over the job. Could be that. Could be. I'll never
    ask him, and he'll never tell me. We'll just stick with what we know
    we can talk about, like drive shafts and spark plugs. 
    
    Still, they came all this way, both of 'em, after all this time. They're
    a little whacked, but I think I'm glad they're here. 
    
    Yeah, it's been a hell of a day. Downs and ups, which isn't how my days
    usually go. I've got to go pay some attention to my folks. It's not a
    hardship; I mean, I love my folks. But I'd rather be going back to my
    place with Fraser, where I could take his clothes off and yell at him
    until he knows just how much I love him and just how much I do *not*
    want another day like today. 
    
    But instead, it's me and the 'rents, headed for Perkin's, where you can
    get the Tremendous Twelve breakfast any time of day. Now *there's* an
    upside to going with them instead of Fraser. Fraser looks at me like
    I'm going to keel over right there in the booth when we eat there. I
    think it's the gravy on the biscuits that really offends him. Too much
    of a good thing. 
    
    Too much of a good thing.
    
    I'm not sure, when it comes to Fraser, that there's any such thing. 
    
    I hope Mom and Dad still set their clocks by Wheel of Fortune.
    
    Maybe I can swing by the Consulate on my way back from dinner, take Fraser
    for a spin in the GTO. He'd probably like that. 
    
    Hey, it's as good an excuse as any.
    
    ***************************************
    
    I know it's been twenty years since I really dated anybody, and I wouldn't
    exactly call what me and Fraser are doing "dating," but there's still
    a little thrill in going up to the Consulate door and ringing the bell,
    knowing he's in there, knowing he'll come to the door and he'll get that
    'Ray' look on his face. 
    
    You know what I'm talking about. Something softens up -- eyes, or mouth,
    I'm not sure since I'm usually looking at the whole package. But lately
    there's this look he gets that I don't see on him when he's looking at
    anybody else. 
    
    Yup, there he is. And there's the look I like. I don't know, maybe he's
    just answering something he sees in me. I'm not real good at hiding how
    I feel. I can stomp it down when I have to, like when we're at the station,
    or Jesus, with my parents -- you think the Academy went over like a lead
    balloon? -- but if there's no reason to hide it, well, then I see no
    reason to hide it. 
    
    I'm undercover enough as it is.
    
    "Ray, I thought you'd be with your parents," he says, opening the door
    wide. "Would you like to come in?" 
    
    "Okay, sure," I say, stepping inside. 
    
    It's quiet as a church, and Fraser says, "Inspector Thatcher and Constable
    Turnbull have left for the day." 
    
    Cool. So it's just me and Fraser, just the way I like it. We haven't
    been by ourselves in the Consulate for awhile, not since being by ourselves
    meant anything more than arguing over dumb stuff without having anyone
    to referee. 
    
    "My folks have a routine they like to stick to, so I dropped them off
    back at the RV," I tell him. 
    
    "I see," he says, and invites me into the sitting room at the front.
    I haven't spent much time in here. It's a little formal for me. 
    
    "Can I offer you something to drink?" he asks me.
    
    "No, thanks. We just ate. They saved you from a trip to Perkin's," I
    tell him, and that makes him smile. 
    
    It feels weird to be here by ourselves. Like we need a chaperone now,
    or something. At my place, it's easy. We know the deal, there. It's gotten
    so I can't even sit on the couch anymore without getting a hard-on. I
    have no idea what I used to do on that couch. Read, maybe. Watch some
    TV. Listen to music. Now the couch only sees one kind of entertainment,
    and that suits me just fine. That couch I get. This stiff loveseat thing
    I don't. 
    
    But today was a strange day right from the start, so I don't know why
    I'm surprised it's going to end the same way. 
    
    Fraser quits playing host and sits across from me, in one of the wing
    chairs. I guess maybe it feels a little strange to him, too, but it's
    not like I'm going to jump him in front of the Queen's portrait. 
    
    Neither of us says anything for a minute, but just when it starts feeling
    like the air's too heavy, he says, "The car your father brought, is that
    the one you told me about?" 
    
    "Yeah, yeah, that's it," I tell him.
    
    "It was kind of him to maintain it all this time," he says.
    
    "Yeah, it was," I say.
    
    There's stuff there that I'm not ready to talk about yet. I don't know
    what it means, exactly, that Dad took such good care of the car, took
    the time to bring it to me. I think it's good, it's not that I don't.
    I just don't know what to think of it all yet, seems too early to say.
    He'd barely even talk to me. Before, I mean. It's like he was dead, or
    I was. Now I guess maybe he's giving me a second chance. 
    
    I look over at Fraser. He's got no Dad. No Mom. Alone in the world, pretty
    much, except for me and Dief, and the job, and a few people up north,
    like Quinn. Maybe that's why he went so gung-ho today. Maybe he's got
    his own way of getting second chances. That makes it a little easier
    to understand, but I'm not letting him off the hook that easy. He's got
    to know he can't just go off like that. 
    
    "You had me worried today, Fraser," I finally say.
    
    "I had a moment or two of worry myself," he admits.
    
    "What were you doing out there?" 
    
    That's what I say. But I'm really asking 'why wasn't I with you?' When
    I went back to the station, he wouldn't even tell me where he was going,
    let alone what he was doing. I knew he had something simmering, stewing
    in his head; knew something was off. He kept saying he was fine. Guess
    that might've been a clue, huh. If you've gotta ask your partner if he's
    okay four times, maybe he's not. Can't make him talk, though. Can't make
    him spill the stew. 
    
    But maybe if he'd talked to me, I could've helped. 
    
    "I was trying to help a friend, Ray," he says. "A friend who's gone out
    of his way many, many times to help me." 
    
    He's going to go the reasonable route, like he does. Which will probably
    make me pop my top, since that's what usually happens. The more rational
    he sounds, the more pissed off I get. 
    
    "I get that, I do. That's not what bugs me." It's not. I can understand
    wanting to help a friend. That's not hard to understand. I just don't
    get... I don't get why he didn't think I could help him with it. 
    
    "Then what is it?"
    
    He wants to hear it? Fine, he can hear it.
    
    "Why'd you have to go do it all on your own? I thought we were partners.
    More than partners, right? But there you go, getting yourself all tied
    up in a knot, and where am I? Standing outside, pulling my hair out,
    and Welsh is telling me to wait for the fucking SWAT team." 
    
    "Ray, there's no need -"
    
    "Bullshit. There's every need. This is something we've gotta get straight,
    and I mean right here, right now." 
    
    I can feel a vein thumping away in my forehead, and my palms are sweaty.
    He looks sort of taken aback, like he really wasn't expecting a fight.
    What, I should just let him go off and get killed? It's like he didn't
    even *think* of seeing if maybe I could help. 
    
    "Ray, I'm sorry --," he starts to say, but I'm not really in the mood
    for it. 
    
    "What? What are you apologizing for?" I ask him. I can hear that tone
    coming into my voice. The one that totally gets his goat, that gets him
    up in my face like I'm up in his. Okay, okay, if that's what we're doing,
    that's what we're doing. 
    
    "I don't really know, Ray. I did what I thought was right," he says,
    and he crosses his arms across his chest. 
    
    Stubborn as a mule. I swear, he's stubborn as a mule.
    
    "You ever think maybe I might have helped, if you'd asked?" 
    
    Aw, shit. That was supposed to be all tough guy, all in his face, but
    it came out sort of wimpy. I'm losing my Fraser edge. 
    
    "I'm sure you would have, Ray. But it wasn't something I felt I had any
    right to ask for your help with. There was a chance we would have to
    work outside the parameters of the legal system, and I couldn't ask you
    to assume that risk on my behalf," he says. 
    
    Even after all these months, and all those sweaty hours up close and
    personal, I'm still not entirely fluent in Fraserspeak, but that sounds
    to me like he thought they might have had to break a law or two, and
    he didn't want me to get in the middle of it, so he just did it by himself.
    
    Typical. Just when he starts to see a shade of gray here and there, he
    cuts me out of the deal. He's finally seeing some gray, but I'm seeing
    red, and it's got nothing to do with the shade of that uniform jacket
    he's still wearing, even though it's almost eight o'clock and there's
    nobody here but me and the Queen. 
    
    He couldn't ask me to assume that risk. 
    
    He *could* have. 
    
    He didn't.
    
    Feels like there's something heavy sitting on my chest. Like waking up
    to Dief squatting on my lungs. Or maybe he was right about that breakfast
    being the end of me. 
    
    I've got two choices: leave, or wring his neck.
    
    Think I'll pick leaving. 
    
    "Next time, ask," I tell him, and I'm up, headed for the door, headed
    out to where I'm less likely to punch him in the nose. 
    
    ***************************************
    
    I make it out the door, but that's probably just because I surprised
    him. By the time I get to the car, he's right behind me, climbing in
    the passenger seat of the GTO like he's got every right to be there.
    
    "What are you doing?" Oh, yeah, that's good. Belligerent works.
    
    "I'm trying to finish our conversation," he says, and he's pretty much
    matching me in the belligerence department. 
    
    "That wasn't a conversation, Fraser," I tell him.
    
    "Well, what would you call it?" he snaps back.
    
    "Oh, *now* you need my help?" I can't help it. He gets like this and
    I can't help myself. 
    
    It goes on pretty much like that, getting louder by the minute, and pretty
    soon we're talking over each other. Okay, shouting over each other. Doesn't
    stop him from bitching when I roll through a stop sign, either; he just
    adds it to whatever line of crap he's feeding me at the time. 
    
    We manage to control ourselves while we're walking up the stairs to my
    apartment. No need to flap our dirty laundry in front of the neighbors;
    I hear from them enough as it is about the dance steps in the middle
    of the night. 
    
    So I wait until the door's not just shut, but locked, before I turn on
    him again. 
    
    Whoa. He didn't get very far, did he? He's right there, chest to chest
    with me, face to face, and before I can even take a breath to start in
    on him again, he's got me backed against the door, held there with that
    good strong Mountie body, not quite rough, but definitely determined,
    and he's shutting me up the old-fashioned way. 
    
    Oh, God, yeah, that's better than yelling. That's what I wanted. That's...this
    is what I need. 
    
    All the worry and anger and, okay, yeah, fear, all hunker down in my
    insides, burn a hole in me. He's here, whole. Damn, I'm glad he's still
    alive. We'll get to the what-the-hell-did-he-think-he-was-doing later.
    Much later. Now I just want him to...I just want him... I just want...
    
    And then I'm kissing him back, heat for heat, snaking my arms around
    him and grinding myself up into him, opening up wide for him, letting
    him in, sucking on his tongue like I could live on it. Against my belly,
    I can feel his belt, feel the straps and buttons of his uniform, and
    below that, I can feel him hardening up against my hip. His mouth's hot,
    fiery hot, like all those layers of wool he wears make him steam inside
    and it's all coming out through his mouth. 
    
    We're fighting, mouth to mouth, twisting and turning, trying to get closer,
    biting and licking. He doesn't get like this very often when he's in
    his uniform; it's like a chastity belt or something. Guess I really pushed
    his buttons this time. 
    
    Forget breathing, forget arguing, I just want to do this for the next
    three days, keep feeling that mouth, hearing the catchy sounds in his
    throat when he starts to move against me, tight hard pushes against me.
    I get my mouth off his, pull it off with this noisy suction sound. Holy
    cow, we were *deep* that time. Talk about your Six Fathom Shoal. He's
    got his eyes closed and he's already trying to find my mouth again, but
    I want something different, I want more. I want him to... 
    
    I push him just far enough for me to turn around. I rest my forehead
    against the door and let myself fall back into him. It's maybe an inch,
    no more. He's all around me; we're making this hot little air pocket
    with our bodies. He catches me, holds me around the chest, and his mouth
    finds the strip of skin between my hair and my shirt and homes in there.
    
    "Do me," I whisper, rubbing my head against his.
    
    Right away, one of his hands slides down between my legs, takes hold
    of me through my jeans. 
    
    Oooh, that feels good. He's got the greatest hands. But that's not what
    I want. I rub my ass against him, feel him adjust his stance automatically,
    so his dick's tucked in between. Yeah, he knows, he knows. At least his
    dick knows. 
    
    "*Do* me," I whisper again, and it sounds half desperate to me.
    
    "No," he moans, rocking against me, finding the rhythm.
    
    I drop my forehead back onto the door with a thud. Okay, okay, so it's
    not the best idea I ever had. Door-thumping sex is likely to get me evicted.
    I just want him so bad, want him in every possible way. 
    
    "Not like this," he says into my neck. "Not angry like this."
    
    Oh, Fraser, you slay me sometimes. Slay me, flay me, slice me wide open.
    
    He's always thinking. He never turns off, not even when he's turned on.
    I'm not thinking about anything, I hardly even care if the neighbors
    can hear us going at it, but not Fraser. Fraser keeps his head. Fraser's
    good under pressure. 
    
    Fraser's got it under control.
    
    I guess it's a good thing one of us does. 
    
    I'm starting to rock harder, pushing myself into his hand, then back
    against his crotch. I've got both hands on his thighs now, pulling him
    closer, holding him there, where I want us naked and slotted together,
    but have to settle for the feel of him through all those layers of uniform,
    the sound of too many clothes rubbing against each other. I'm bracing
    myself with my head, and he pushes a hand between my forehead and the
    door, making a cushion between me and the wood. 
    
    His other hand's busy, unbuttoning, unzipping, and finally, he's got
    me out, hot in his hotter hand. He doesn't waste any time stroking or
    playing, he just starts pumping me hard, the long, sure strokes he's
    learned I like. I push my head into one hand, my dick into the other.
    It's good that he's holding me up, that's good, because my knees aren't
    doing their job, and I'm starting to shake. He digs his thumb in right
    below the head, presses hard right on the ridge there, and then I'm gone,
    making a mess on his hand and on my jeans, and probably the door, too,
    and he'd better get a better grip on me, somewhere besides my dick, cuz
    I'm sliding, headed for the floor. My knees just gave up completely.
    
    He grabs me before I hit the floor, pulls me up with an arm around my
    middle. I can still feel him, hard, on my hip. Oh yeah, I forgot. Can't
    sully the uniform. 
    
    He's hugging me, smearing come all over me, but I don't care. Hell, that
    seems to be my shirt's second job most days. He's wrapped himself around
    me, so all I can smell is wool and my own sweat and come. He tucks his
    head between my neck and shoulder, rubs his mouth on my shirt, still
    just holding me back against him. 
    
    We stand that way for a little bit, breathing in sync, then he says,
    "Do you really want that?" His voice sounds kind of husky, like his mouth's
    dry. 
    
    I know what he's talking about. I nod. I can feel his hair against my
    neck, soft as a mink. 
    
    He's got one hand under my t-shirt now, and he's rubbing his thumb along
    one of my ribs. He knows I love that. 
    
     "Can we go into your room?" 
    
    I'm a dipshit. Of course he's not going to fuck me in the foyer. What
    was I thinking? Well, I wasn't. It's his own damn fault. He gets me riled
    up and worked up and then kisses me; what's he expect? Clarity? Decent
    conversation? He's lucky I didn't just strip him down and have him in
    the hallway. 
    
    "Yeah, sure," I tell him. I tug out from under his arms and lead the
    way, losing laundry as I go. 
    
    ***************************************
    
    I don't know what I expected, but this isn't it. It's like drowning all
    over again. I can't breathe. I'm floundering, gasping for air, weighed
    down and floating, both at the same time. For once, I'm really, really
    glad Fraser's an in-control kind of guy. One of us should be, doing something
    like this, and it's obviously not going to be me. 
    
    God, I didn't know how different it would be. Didn't know I'd fall this
    far apart, didn't know I could let someone get this close, get right
    up inside me like this. I think I'm going to be finding strewn scraps
    of myself for days. I can't still be all here. I can't feel like this,
    feel this good, this...filled up... and not have it show. 
    
    I'm on my stomach, stretched out across my bed. Clean sheets, thank God.
    I'd made the bed and everything. I think we just bid a fond farewell
    to the couch -- if I'd known how much better it was to do this with some
    elbow room, we'd have been in here weeks ago. Maybe. Maybe something
    else was keeping us out there. Couching is one thing. Bedding him (or
    being bedded) seems like something else. 
    
    It's something else all right. It's out of this world.
    
    Fraser took an agonizing amount of time putting me just where he wanted
    me: face down, one knee crooked, pillow under me. Like I was a sculpture
    or something, that had to be just so. Then he spent another agonizing
    amount of time getting me ready. Like I wasn't already loose as a goose,
    primed time. He rubbed me here, slicked me up there, and even that blew
    me away. Even just his fingers made me crazy.  I could have come on just
    the fingers. 
    
    But Fraser's nothing but thorough, and so it felt like it took him ten
    minutes to poke his way in. I don't know where he got the patience. I
    sure didn't have it, when it was me doing him. I didn't mind. It hurt,
    a little, right there when he started. Slow worked, slow was good. 
    
    Slow didn't last very long once he wedged it all in, though. 
    
    Slow's not the word I'd use now, if words were still appearing like they
    should, which they're not. 
    
    He's hovering over me, propped up with his hands beside my head, and
    every time he thrusts in, I can feel him brush my back; rolling on, rolling
    off, rolling in, rolling out, like a wave. Maybe that's where the drowning
    feeling comes in; it's like he's sucked me in with him, pulled me under
    with him, like I'm feeling what he's feeling, and the other way around,
    too. 
    
    He feels humongous inside me. He's good-sized, but we're not talking
    John Holmes, here. I guess it's a question of proportion. Whenever he
    pulls back, I can hear the mutter moan I make, the protest. I don't want
    him out. I want him in, in as far as he can go, all the way in. When
    he gets in far enough, he rubs this amazing place, feels like I'm getting
    jerked off inside out. 
    
    I'm sweating up the sheets, leaking stuff, too, where I'm rubbing against
    them. I could probably get a hand under me, but I don't have much in
    the way of motor control. Mostly I'm just lying here, letting him do
    whatever he wants, however he wants it. He's sweating on me, makes it
    nice and slick, a smooth, smooth ride. His skin's hot where he's sliding
    on me, hot and tight, and he's pushing me, starting to push me, thrusting
    longer, harder, deeper, oh, yeah, that's right, just like that. 
    
    I'm struggling a little, trying not to just die down here, trying to
    remember to breathe, and my dick feels like it's going to just explode,
    shatter, like I'm breaking, falling. 
    
    "Fraser..." Oh, man, I sound... crazy. Like I've lost it. 
    
    "I know, Ray, I know," he says against my shoulder, and he drops down
    on me, lets me have his weight on my back, lets me feel him, solid on
    top of me, real. It helps. It helps. One more thrust, the deepest yet.
    Another, and I hear him groaning, feel his mouth open on my shoulder,
    feel him jerk inside me, and then it's okay, it's okay to let go, and
    it's a relief to come, to feel that wave break over my head, wet stuff
    gushing out under me, hot and slippery. 
    
    And then I can breathe again. I'm panting, drinking in big gulps of air,
    but when Fraser tries to lift himself off me, I throw an arm back, awkward,
    but I don't care, and hold him down, hold him on me. He's not going anywhere
    just yet. No, he can just stay right there. He did this to me, now he
    can just hang out while I figure out what the hell happened. God in heaven,
    I thought doing this to *him* changed my world. I thought I knew what
    sex was all about. I thought I knew how love and sex went together. 
    
    I didn't know shit.
    
    He's talking to me, right into my ear, low and sweet.
    
    "It's okay, Ray, it's all right," he's saying, crooning almost, and he's
    wiping sweat off my face. Sweat. I think it's sweat. Could be something
    else, but if he's not going to make a big deal out of it, I won't, either.
    
    He understands. He understands me. He knows. 
    
    He's been me. 
    
    He knows how this feels.
    
    ***************************************
    
    I guess I sweated out most of my mad. He's pretty relaxed, too, compared
    to how he was. We had a pretty hard day. I don't guess it's any easier
    being the one under the gun than being the one standing outside worrying
    about it. 
    
    We're both on our backs, breathing hard, trying to cool off, trying to
    cool down. My muscles are still quivering, like they could do it all
    again with just a hint of encouragement, but we've still got some stuff
    to talk about before we steam things up again. 
    
    And this time, I'm not going to let him distract me. 
    
    It's gonna be a race, I can tell. If I can just keep his mouth off me
    for two minutes, I've got a fighting chance. Of course, if it comes down
    that -- win, lose, whatever -- it's all good. I take a few more deep
    breaths, loving the rush of air, how it makes me sort of dizzy. Okay,
    okay, I'm not so scattershot anymore. I might make some sense. We'll
    see. 
    
    "You know, Fraser, you almost got yourself killed today," I say.
    
    "It was a precarious situation, yes," he says back.
    
    "What makes you do stuff like that?" I ask him, gathering enough strength
    to roll up and lean over him. 
    
    "It's my job, Ray," he says, but he won't meet my eyes. "My duty." 
    
    "Not like that, it's not. Not without backup, not without some protection,"
    I tell him. God, I want to tattoo that on his body somewhere. He just
    barrels ahead all the time, doesn't think about anything but The Job,
    doing his Duty. Being a goddamn Mountie every minute of the day. 
    
    It takes him a while, but eventually he lifts his chin and looks up at
    me. His hair's wet, sticking up, and he's pale, everywhere except his
    mouth and his eyes. I love this Fraser, this unwound, undone Fraser.
    Love the sweat under his lip, love the shiver he gives when I breathe
    on his skin. 
    
    "I haven't had much reason to be careful, and I suppose I've become accustomed
    to living with a certain level of risk," he finally says, real low. 
    
    "Is that another way of saying you haven't had anything to lose?" I ask
    him. 
    
    He tilts his head back and looks away, up at the ceiling, then nods,
    slowly. 
    
    "Yeah, well, now you do. So just get yourself accustomed to *that*, okay?"
    
    Honest to Pete, he can be a scary guy. It's like he's got no idea how
    important he is. Nothing to lose, my eye. He's so good at so much stuff,
    but it's like he's got no clue that any of it adds up to anything. Or
    that maybe he's plenty good enough even without the uniform. How can
    he not know that? 
    
    He nods again, and looks back at me, narrowing his eyes, like he's thinking
    hard about something. 
    
    "Ray, I've been wondering... How did you find us?" he asks me.
    
    "Huh?"
    
    "Our location, this afternoon. How did you determine where we were?"
    
    "Oh. Well, Turnbull called, faxed over a sketch of Kelly, and I busted
    Storey's chops 'til he sang like a bird," I tell him. 
    
    "I see," he says. "In other words, you *did* find a way to help." 
    
    Clever guy, isn't he?
    
    "Oh, no, Fraser, don't make like that makes it all right," I tell him,
    and he pulls me down onto his chest, lines us up so I've got my face
    in his neck. He smells sweaty and Mountie-y, like soap and shaving cream.
    
    I can feel the breath he takes under my chest, and under my mouth, I
    can feel his voice hum in his throat. "Ray, I couldn't...I didn't exclude
    you on purpose. I..." 
    
    I slide my hands under his shoulders. "I know."
    
    I do know. He just does what he thinks is right. Ninety percent of the
    time, it works out fine. It's the other ten percent I worry about. 
    
    He's more tentative than before. "Does that mean..."
    
    "It means don't do it again, Fraser, okay? Just... don't."
    
    I feel him sigh under me, then his arms go around my back, squeeze tight.
    I'd like to keep him this way, all relaxed, and naked, and safe underneath
    me. 
    
    "Understood," he says.
    
    Understood.
    
    I know what that means. That means he heard it, and he doesn't necessarily
    agree with it, but he's not going to fight me on it now. He knows he
    might as well let me have this round. It won't change anything. Next
    time he hears a cry in the wilderness he'll still be gung-ho, tilting
    at windmills, saving the day, but at least he's smart enough to tell
    me what I want to hear right now. 
    
    With Fraser, half of it's about the stuff he doesn't say. You just have
    to know how to listen. 
    
    See? I understand him, too. 
    
    ***************************************
    
    The end.
    


End file.
